FRancy to meet yUK
by LilacsAndVelvet
Summary: On outside, the hate is apparent between France, and England.  On the inside though, there are feelings you would never know.


_Every time we lie awake  
>After every hit we take<br>Every feeling that I get  
>But <em>_**I**__ haven't __**miss**__ed __**you **__yet.._

Release, That's all it was. Their fighting was real, their hatred was real, and the _pleasure _was just as real as the things listed prior. Those around them had to clue that the fighting due to "sexual tension" had been released long ago, and that the fighting now was to prevent the seed of their 'relationship' from growing into a blossom of feelings. Just sex, that's all they even wanted. There was no gentle cooing in the arms of their beloved after a night spent. There was no 'I love you.'s, no sighs of contentment or bliss. Just heavy panting, and unspoken words of, 'You made me bloody sick, frog.' And 'Oh Angleterre, even your food is more delightful than your  
>attitude !' No love, just selfish lust. <p>

* * *

><p><em>Every roommate kept awake<br>By every sigh and scream we make  
>All the feelings that I get<br>But __**I**__ still __**don't **__**miss **_you _yet.._

England began to question his feelings. Had the seed been watered when his back was turned? Had it rained, and fed the small ball of lust beginning to take shape?  
>Did he hope the little things he thought about while in bed would come true? What was the reason behind getting jealous when Francis would hold hands with others around him? When he would peck Canada on the cheeks as he entered, and left the conference room?<br>Arthur Kirkland knew everything he would ever need, right?  
>The thinking continues as his sits in his study, fixing up the mess that was just caused by the frenchman's quick, clandestine visit.<br>What is this feeling? 

_Only when I stop to think about it.._

Coincidentally, Francis Bonnefoy was questioning the same thing while driving home. Did England feel the same ? Not that there was feelings _there_ to question, just curiosity. Why was he drown in waves of guilt every time he left the small, warm, and welcoming house in London ?  
>His throat pulsed in convusions as he held back tears. He didn't want this, he never did. Alone, he knew the fighting was not necessary and was, well, plain ridiculous. There was a natural passion when he locked eyes with Arthur, a sickness would rise and words dripping with venom were wretched. They were easily countered with harsh words from the other.<br>Surely it couldn't be hate he sensed in his voice, please, let it be something other than that.  
>He didn't want this, so why was it present ?<br>A mop of sandy blood hair flooded his vision when his car started to spin and jerk.  
>As his mind went black, he pondered the thought.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Only when <em>_**I**__ stop to __**think**__ about you,  
>I know..<br>Only when you stop to think __**about**__ me,  
>do <em>_**you **__know?_

* * *

><p>America burst into the conference room with his brother, whom was holding on tight and weeping into his clothed shoulder. He delivered the news of Frances accident, nearly everyone gasped. Not Arthur though, his job was to hate. Outside, he was as stotic as both Germany, and Sweden. On the inside, he was trying the forget the sound he heard his heart make as it broke. Yet, he spoke.<p>

"Alfred, when did the accident occur, where was he found?"

Teary blue eyes locked with his jade orbs, his face scrunched in disrespect and his eyebrows raised. Arthur was more than confused with the odd scowl on America's face. He asked again, voice almost breaking.

"Shouldn't _you_ know? It was a few miles from _your _house." 

* * *

><p><em>I hate everything about you<br>Why __**do**__ I love you?  
><em>_**You **__**hate**__ everything about me  
>Why do you love <em>_**me?  
><strong>_

* * *

><p><em><em>Francis Bonnefoy is a lover, it's something he's well known for. Fashion, wine, those weren't important things, even though he would quickly defend himself if you even attempted to take away his title of being the best when it came to them to. He was a gorgeous man, wavey blonde locks, stunning blue eyes. No compliment in the books could add up enough to describe him. He was France, Francis is you will. That title, France? Was the only thing that came close. Well, that's what Arthur thought. As he watched him on the hospital bed, though, he was close to crowning him perfect. Did it matter anymore? What he felt, was it important?

_**I**__ hate  
>You hate<br>I __**hate**__  
>You <em>_**love **__me_

A soft, shaking hand moved to his face and began to delicately feel the soft skin.  
>It wasn't to comfort his wounded France, but to soothe himself. The warmth he traced under his hand was enough to say he was alive, and okay. <p>

_I hate __**everything **__about you..  
><em>

"Why do I love you..?"

There wasn't a filter anymore, it needed to be said. If anything happened to France, at least he would know he told him how he felt.  
>A shocking thing happened next, blue eyes fluttered open, and lips pulled into a smile.<br>Arthur contemplated running out of the room in sheer terror that Francis had heard him, his weak heart was beating fast and hard in his ears. He was barely able to hear what was said.

"Oh, Angleterre.."

Almost out of instinct, he moved his hand upwards and flicked his forehead.

"Sod off!"

Even if he ment to say, 'I'm glad you're alright', the internal message was received by France. He smiled, and stretched his arm out to meet the one that had pained him seconds ago. Gradually, hands moved closer and intertwined. Sure, the fights would continue when others were around, hitting, everything. Only they would able to feel the heartwarming love laced in each insult and punch. Words mean nothing, and secrets were hush hush.

The door quickly opened, there was a loud bang as the knob smacked against the wall, and a metal cart. It was Alfred, he stood at the door way, slack-jawed as he looked at the sight before him. As England flushed, America smiled knowingly.

"I knew it!"

Though, secrets weren't invisible. 

* * *

><p><em>_<br>_Quick author's note;  
><span>T<span>his is actually not finished! It's been stuck in my head for days, and i had to quickly write it down so i wouldn't forget a thing. I'm going to eventually go back and fix it up. I'm sorry about the cheesy title pun. I can't help myself sometimes..  
>Anyway, the song in here is by Three Days Grace.<br>Thanks dearies!3


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